


The friends you keep

by tipofthepencil



Category: Tokyo Ghoul
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Codependency, Gen, How to Acquire a Quinque 101, Non-Graphic Violence, Not really though, POV Second Person, Reader-Insert, Stockholm Syndrome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-09
Updated: 2016-09-09
Packaged: 2018-08-14 03:05:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7996264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tipofthepencil/pseuds/tipofthepencil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The story of your quinque, told in reverse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The friends you keep

-

You wield her with simplicity. It’s not enough to be graceful; it’s nothing like what the CCG’s reapers can do and nothing compared to Mado and Suzuya’s agility, but it serves you well.

Foul, glistening liquid drips on the concrete floor. The drops that land on flesh sizzles, and the ghoul screech in something like helplessness. Something like comprehension dawns in his eyes, but pain doesn’t accompany it. That’s good.

You think you can hear her laugh, softly, somewhere far, far away.

-

You see a kagune resting on the table, disconnected from its wielder. It is slick and wet, drowning in its own fluid as it twists and untwists.

It looks lost, and alone, like the little girl, and your heart aches in remembrance.

Never again, you vow. You’ll never let her be lonely again.

“It’s a fine specimen and all,” Quinque Specialist Tanuki tells you. His voice is gruff. “But I don’t think it can be used. That fluid is incredibly poisonous. Look at it; it’s starting to decompose the table!”

He’s exaggerating, just a bit, but there _are_ strange stains on the limestone, so you let it go.

Without warning, you reach your hand out and lightly caress the bikaku. Behind you, the technician chokes out a noise of alarm. You ignore him, your light touches turning into firm strokes.

“Wha--?” His alarm turns to bemusement when you don't react in pain.

“I can use her. I have immunity. I am willing to offer anything you need to make an antidote,” you say, uncompromisingly. “So please, do your best to make her into a suitable weapon."

Underneath your ministrations, the kagune settles and another piece reaches up to wrap around your hand. You turn to look at the specialist. You wonder what he sees. Does he know the story behind the unnatural droop of the right side of your lips? What does he think of the patch of skin a little above your forehead, corroded scar tissue clearly visible with no hair to block it? Even now, your skin itches and reddens, just a little. Not enough to be fatal, but enough to know it _should_ have been.

He looks at you with astonishment. “…alright then. I’ll let the higher ups know.”

You rub the itchy flesh with your other hand. You used to be _so_ self-conscious. But now, it doesn’t matter. She won’t be alone so long as you can help it.

-

She melds forcefully into your body, completely relaxed for what must be the first time in her life. Her secretions no longer affect you, so you hold her as tightly as you can, even as you wish you can hold her tighter. _Tighter_. You know it’s not enough, and that it’ll never be enough, so you’re going to give and give, as if effort can make up for all that she lacked.

Hint: it can’t.

You let go, reluctantly, but you have to let go for what you’re about to do. You still cradle her body with your own. She barely fits in the area between your legs but you two make it work, and you wish, absently, that she was a little younger. That you had gotten to her a little faster. You bet she wishes it too.

“Haaaa,” she sighs, the only sounds she bothers to make anymore. She sounds so tired. “Haaaaah.”

You run your hands through her ratty hair, throat tight, and drop your head into her neck. “More?” You ask, hoping to prolong this moment. You’re so unfair; that’s a part of you that hasn’t changed.

She shifts in your lap. “Mm.” Two slimy appendages wiggle their way out of the space between your hips and hers, and one of them wraps around your arms.

Your hands leave her hair and rub her all over. You massage her thin shoulders as if you could impress a tiny bit of warmth into her. You encircle her stomach and pull her back against your chest. In one lighthearted moment, you tickle her feet. She laughs. You hold onto that ugly laughter like a lifeline.

Are you doing a good job? Is this anything _close_ to making up for what the world owes her?

Probably not.

After a while, you stop. Your arms are getting tired, and you need strength for the next part.

You grab the piece of her kagune that the two of you cut apart together, and close her eyes with the other hand. Her breath hitches. Fear? Anticipation?

You slit her throat. Then you cry, because she no longer has to.

The CCG agents find you near catatonic and curled up near the legs of her corpse.

-

One day, you take a deep breath and think: it’s now or never.

You wrap her up in a full body hug, wearing a sleeveless shirt and shorts. She freezes at the skin to skin contact, and her eyes widen in fear. No matter how much you try to reassure her, she trembles uncontrollably, watching you with something like betrayal in her eyes.

You know that it’s not betrayal, but rather, a deep sense of loss.

And because you know that it’s now or never, you keep making contact with her for the rest of the day. You cage her between your body and the stove while cooking, making sure she doesn’t catch on fire. You cradle her body when you read her stories, and rest your head on her hair. You play with her toys, and she goes along with you, even though she looks like she’s ready to cry. You both go to sleep with a deep sense of dread, but she tries to smile for you anyway.

When you wake up the next morning, alive, the two of you sob in sweet relief. You kiss her wet cheeks.

-

You cook without thinking about it, and she eats the food even if one side is slightly charred and the other is nearly undercooked. Luckily, you’ve gotten better, so her food turns out pleasant looking more often than not. You cook yourself some ramen.

Your stories sound as boring as an English assignment, since you still can’t put the right inflections into your voice. She listens to your voice anyway. Her head rests on your clothed lap and your gloved hands run through her hair.

You help her take baths in the biggest wash bin you can find, and the two of you run to dump the water in the sewer drains immediately after.

You buy her a stuffed monkey. When a week passes and the toy becomes soaked in her residue, you buy her another.

You measure out a teaspoon of poison and down it.

At the end of the day, you look at her sleeping face and touch her softly, sometimes her head and sometimes her arms, with only your bare hands until the slightest bout of dizziness interrupts you.

-

“I’m so lonely,” she bawls, poisonous tears leaking out her eyes. You squash down the urge to hug her, because, not yet. You can’t do this yet. You’ll die, and you can’t leave her alone. She wouldn’t let you touch her anyway, and her hands stay stubbornly at her sides.

“Stop being afraid,” she demands when your voice shakes, and you wish you could. Thing is, you’re not afraid for yourself anymore. You’re afraid for _her_ and what happens when your plan fails.

“I’m sorry,” she sobs, when you’re having trouble breathing as your body struggles to neutralize the poison coursing through your veins. The poison itself doesn’t hurt, and that makes the knot in your throat stand out all the more as your try to soothe her.

“Please, I’ll be good,” she prays, while your eyesight twists and turns into unfathomable colors, while you’re lips move off sync to your voice as you ramble. Your mind is delirious, but still intact enough to curse the god that either can’t hear her or won’t.

-

One day, it has had enough.

“Fuck you!” it screams. “Fuck you, I don’t need you. I should eat you. I should have just fucking eaten you.”

“I’m trying!” you yell back. “I’m just human! Stop being so unreasonable, I’m fucking trying, okay?” You’re bitter, bitter enough to think that you’d rather die here than continue on, so you add, “Jesus Christ, no wonder everyone left you. You’re so fucking selfish, you know that?!” Take it back. You need to take it back.

You watch its eyes widen in inexpressible anger, and liquid death runs down its face. And then it roars.

You’re going to die.

It rages for a good hour, trashing the shitty apartment and everything in it. A storm rampages all around you, leaving you surprisingly untouched. At the end of it, all that’s left is a broken home and a broken little girl-like creature and you.

You look at her tear stained face, and the sweat that coats her body, and stand there with the knowledge that you can’t even comfort her beyond your pathetic reassurances. She ignores you, knowing that you won’t dare to touch her. She’s right. You’re sorry.

You’re sorry.

Something like your heart shrivels up inside your chest.

-

You cook the meat, trying to forget it was once human. You do your best to avoid the smell, but you catch a whiff of it sometimes and gag immediately after. How putrid, the smell of cooked human meat. You’re a monster to do this for your own survival. But the real monster is in the next room. The real monster is the one making you do this. You comfort yourself with those words, trying to ignore the blood on your shaking hands.

It’s human blood, of course.

You read stories to the ghoul in a trembling voice. Every now and then, you sneak a glance at it, to reassure yourself that it isn’t going to touch you. You’re still alive. You can make it through this. You can. You will. It won’t kill you yet. As if hearing your thoughts, the ghoul shifts towards you and you freeze, your voice tapering off into a choked whimper. You only breathe when it moves away again.

You watch the ghoul bathe with wariness. It pollutes the very water it touches, turning it a murky green. When it’s done, you quickly dispose of the toxic liquid into the toilet, terrified of moving it any further in fear that it will splash on you.

At the end of the day you place a single drop of poison on your tongue. This is the condition for you to live. You need to develop an immunity to the ghoul’s secretions, or you will die.

-

“W-where are your parents?” you ask, once. Your voice is quiet, and you’re too afraid to speak any louder.

“I killed them, probably,” the monster answers.

-

You stare up at the little girl ghoul, but it’s looking at something else.

“Th-the antidote,” blubbers the ghoul that captured you, that’s handing you over like a piece of meat. “Y-you promised the antidote if I brought you food.” The ghoul that is now skewered by a blunt, writhing mass that is a kagune, and you look your death in the eye.

It turns away. “There’s no fucking antidote, idiot,” it grits out. It tosses the other ghoul to the side and turns to you. The bikaku lingers menacingly in the air, dripping sour poison.

You scramble backwards. “No, no. _No no no no_. Please, don’t eat me. _Don’t eat me_! Please. Please. I’ll do anything.”

It advances on you until the appendage is just a mere foot away.

“ _Anything_ ,” you plead, voice cracking.

**Author's Note:**

> It's still a bit of an experiment. I'm not good enough to capture the feel I want, and this is my first step. Any feedback is appreciated!


End file.
